Disclaimer: I'm not making money out of this fic. The characters belong to
Tolkien, or whoever owns the rights. I wish they were mine.
Silently as ever, Aragorn strode into the enclosed glade where Frodo had stood only an hour or two earlier. In the dense and overwhelming shadow of an incomprehensibly tall Mallorn there stood a basin on a tall pedestal, catching the gently trickling water of a stream. Though quite typical of elvish work, it seemed that a slight phosphorous glow emitted from the rippling liquid trapped in the bowl, or, as it occurred to an exhausted warrior, it pulled in the light from the moon and stars to make its revelations seen. For this was the eternal mirror of Galadriel, ever changing, never the same, its glimpses of the future subtly shifting as often as the waters over spilled. Aragorn sighed. He'd never looked into the mirror before, trying to keep his mind clear and focused as he had learnt as a child, not distracted by what may happen. Aragorn enjoyed, or at least could tolerate, living in the present. He had found quite early on that he couldn't cope with the turbulent history of his ancestors and the weight of things to come had affected his judgement and performance more than once. He couldn't fail now. It simply wasn't an option. Therefore now, with a heart made of mercury that was at once dense and heavy, quick and sharp, he climbed the carved stone steps and picked up the ornate silver ewer.
The thoughts of failure made Aragorn feel slightly nauseous. With the loss of Gandalf, his best friend and only guide on this doomed venture, success was increasingly unlikely and now he needed to know everything that may aid, affect or ruin the quest of the fellowship. With the silver vessel, he stopped the flow of the stream that was distorting the surface of the mirror with ripples, slowly blinked and opened his eyes straight into the pool, prepared for any outcome that the water of Lorien could give.
He opened his eyes and saw - nothing. Absolutely blank. A reflection of the sky above. In confusion Aragorn blinked and looked around him, at the trees, the sky, and back to the water- still blank... Aragorn laughed at his own stupidity, at his single moment of weakness. It'd never happen again, he'd make sure of that, but secretly he was glad that the mirror hadn't shown anything. For he realised that he was afraid...afraid of failure, afraid of carrying on without a guide or guidance, of leading the fellowship to their deaths, and Aragorn had no idea where all this fear had come from, though it consumed him utterly. Consumed his body and his soul... his entire being. He was frozen before the pool, its surface like dangerous black ice, but so much colder and more impassive with stars frozen and etched into its surface.
As he stared, it felt as though he was drowning in the darkness, like he couldn't cope, and certainly not on his own. Cold enveloped him and it seemed that the constellations shifted until he saw before him the long line of his distinguished family. To his shock, he could see every face as though carved in stone, impassive and imposing. Aragorn tried to run, but he couldn't move an inch and besides, there was nowhere to run to. Gasping wildly, he searched the inhuman idols for a sign... and saw that the first of the line was cracked, flawed. His forefather, Isildur, split straight down the middle; wearing a mask of shame instead of a crown. And the man Isildur, suddenly apparent, kneeled to him. Aragorn bowed his head in reply, gazing in wonder at the prostrated King in front of him.
After that, the rest of the vision was a blur, though Aragorn felt as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes and he could finally see clearly. He watched the Fellowship as they slept and could see past their exteriors to their cores. The small, resilient strength of the Ring-bearer, the determined love of his companion. The pure light and joy that made up the two smaller hobbits. The brute ferocity of the dwarf and the subtle power of the elf. The flawed man. The man whose weakness could make them fall... or save them. The man with desires unlike the rest of the mismatched group- for power. Certainly Boromir was dangerous, but he didn't know it yet. Finally, Aragorn saw himself as he truly was; a leader of men, a figurehead, filled with compassion, strength and love with the courage to lead and not fail.
O, what he would give to hear Gandalf's voice again, to calm his trouble mind about these visions!, he thought as he was released from the thrall of the witchery of Galadriel. He relinquished his numbing grip on the basin's edge and slowly walked away from the grove, thinking he may fall due to his unsteady legs. Back at his designated flet, he rolled himself in Lothlorien's finest blankets and feeling what he thought was Gandalf's blessing, Aragorn fell into a dreamless sleep.
Silently as ever, Aragorn strode into the enclosed glade where Frodo had stood only an hour or two earlier. In the dense and overwhelming shadow of an incomprehensibly tall Mallorn there stood a basin on a tall pedestal, catching the gently trickling water of a stream. Though quite typical of elvish work, it seemed that a slight phosphorous glow emitted from the rippling liquid trapped in the bowl, or, as it occurred to an exhausted warrior, it pulled in the light from the moon and stars to make its revelations seen. For this was the eternal mirror of Galadriel, ever changing, never the same, its glimpses of the future subtly shifting as often as the waters over spilled. Aragorn sighed. He'd never looked into the mirror before, trying to keep his mind clear and focused as he had learnt as a child, not distracted by what may happen. Aragorn enjoyed, or at least could tolerate, living in the present. He had found quite early on that he couldn't cope with the turbulent history of his ancestors and the weight of things to come had affected his judgement and performance more than once. He couldn't fail now. It simply wasn't an option. Therefore now, with a heart made of mercury that was at once dense and heavy, quick and sharp, he climbed the carved stone steps and picked up the ornate silver ewer.
The thoughts of failure made Aragorn feel slightly nauseous. With the loss of Gandalf, his best friend and only guide on this doomed venture, success was increasingly unlikely and now he needed to know everything that may aid, affect or ruin the quest of the fellowship. With the silver vessel, he stopped the flow of the stream that was distorting the surface of the mirror with ripples, slowly blinked and opened his eyes straight into the pool, prepared for any outcome that the water of Lorien could give.
He opened his eyes and saw - nothing. Absolutely blank. A reflection of the sky above. In confusion Aragorn blinked and looked around him, at the trees, the sky, and back to the water- still blank... Aragorn laughed at his own stupidity, at his single moment of weakness. It'd never happen again, he'd make sure of that, but secretly he was glad that the mirror hadn't shown anything. For he realised that he was afraid...afraid of failure, afraid of carrying on without a guide or guidance, of leading the fellowship to their deaths, and Aragorn had no idea where all this fear had come from, though it consumed him utterly. Consumed his body and his soul... his entire being. He was frozen before the pool, its surface like dangerous black ice, but so much colder and more impassive with stars frozen and etched into its surface.
As he stared, it felt as though he was drowning in the darkness, like he couldn't cope, and certainly not on his own. Cold enveloped him and it seemed that the constellations shifted until he saw before him the long line of his distinguished family. To his shock, he could see every face as though carved in stone, impassive and imposing. Aragorn tried to run, but he couldn't move an inch and besides, there was nowhere to run to. Gasping wildly, he searched the inhuman idols for a sign... and saw that the first of the line was cracked, flawed. His forefather, Isildur, split straight down the middle; wearing a mask of shame instead of a crown. And the man Isildur, suddenly apparent, kneeled to him. Aragorn bowed his head in reply, gazing in wonder at the prostrated King in front of him.
After that, the rest of the vision was a blur, though Aragorn felt as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes and he could finally see clearly. He watched the Fellowship as they slept and could see past their exteriors to their cores. The small, resilient strength of the Ring-bearer, the determined love of his companion. The pure light and joy that made up the two smaller hobbits. The brute ferocity of the dwarf and the subtle power of the elf. The flawed man. The man whose weakness could make them fall... or save them. The man with desires unlike the rest of the mismatched group- for power. Certainly Boromir was dangerous, but he didn't know it yet. Finally, Aragorn saw himself as he truly was; a leader of men, a figurehead, filled with compassion, strength and love with the courage to lead and not fail.
O, what he would give to hear Gandalf's voice again, to calm his trouble mind about these visions!, he thought as he was released from the thrall of the witchery of Galadriel. He relinquished his numbing grip on the basin's edge and slowly walked away from the grove, thinking he may fall due to his unsteady legs. Back at his designated flet, he rolled himself in Lothlorien's finest blankets and feeling what he thought was Gandalf's blessing, Aragorn fell into a dreamless sleep.